


where there's panic lingers relapse

by orphan_account



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 22:09:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3398060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward is wrist-deep in the corpse of an elderly homicide victim when Jim raps at his door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where there's panic lingers relapse

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "This House Alive" by Cursive.

Edward is wrist-deep in the corpse of an elderly homicide victim when Jim raps at his door and says more than asks, "You remember that kid from a few months ago? The one who killed his mother? There were about fifty circus freaks - sorry, _performers_ \- milling around the bull pen?"

"Of course," Edward answers mildly. Perhaps a bit too mildly, actually, because Jim quirks an eyebrow at him.

"Anyway, he's being transferred to Arkham. His lawyer trotted out the insanity plea and the judge lessened his sentence. Can you believe it? There was definitely something off about him, but he knew exactly what he was doing or he wouldn't have let his old man help him cover up his tracks. It just doesn't sit right with me."

"What a shame," Edward says, not meeting Jim's eyes.

Jim sighs. "Look, if this is about what I said yesterday," he starts before trailing off, clearly hesitating. It's his turn to avert his gaze when Edward fixes him with a look. "I'm...I'm sorry, alright? It's...nice, what you're doing for that Crane kid. He needs a friend. I didn't mean to imply anything about the, um, nature of your relationship."

Edward smiles, big and bright and a little off-putting, and, just like that, Jim is forgiven.

\--

To be fair, Jim hadn't been wrong when he had called Jonathan Crane Edward's boyfriend. As if the news that Edward had begun hosting Jonathan in his apartment and the sharp decrease in awkward flirting with Kristen hadn't been enough of an implication, Edward _had_ also formally asked Jonathan if he would like to be in a relationship with him not even a week ago.

"You want to be my boyfriend?" Jonathan had asked, pushing the hair out of his eyes for seemingly the thousandth time that day, his voice soft and wavering. He folded the corner of the page that he was on and closed his book, setting it down on the kitchen table.

"I would like that very much," Edward had answered, trying to project an air of confidence and not an air of about to puke. "But only if you would like that, too. I understand that you're in a vulnerable place in your life right now and that there _is_ a difference in age between us. I don't want you to feel as if you need to say 'yes' to continue living here, either. I would be more than happy to remain friends and you would be more than welcome to stay with me for as long as you'd like."

"Are you okay?" Jonathan asked in lieu of an answer. "You...your face is really white."

"I'm fine," Edward answered before his knees gave out and he went tumbling to the floor.

That night had been emotionally tumultuous and mentally taxing (not to mention the fact that he still had a nasty bruise on his tailbone), but Jonathan had agreed to be Edward's boyfriend on the condition that they take things slow.

"I don't know how well I could...perform," he had said, looking everywhere but at Edward's face as he finished inspecting the aforementioned tailbone bruise, his fingers so, so cold on Edward's skin, which seemed to be on fire, no doubt thanks to his nerves. "To be truthful with you, I'm not sure if I even, you know, like boys. Or girls. I haven't given it much thought. But dating you sounds...nice."

"You don't have to do anything that you don't want to," Edward had reassured him. "Think of me as your practice boyfriend if that makes you feel more comfortable. You can set the pace and I'll follow. And...dating you sounds nice, as well."

Jonathan smiled, which was a small miracle. Edward hadn't seen him smile before that night.

\--

Jim leaves Edward to his corpse dismantling, but the news of Jerome Lloyd's transfer to Arkham lingers. Edward hadn't paid much attention to him the first time that Jim had questioned him, more out of disinterest than respect for the grieving, as coldhearted as that sounded. The second time that Jim had questioned him, however, had yielded much more interesting results; Edward, of course, hadn't been in the room with him or Dr. Thompkins, but he had seemed more shaken up than usual after Jerome had been taken away. Edward had felt bad for Jim and then almost abruptly determined to meet this strange, matricidal young man with a laugh that, according to Jim, was "unnatural."

"Like nails on a chalkboard," Dr. Thompkins had theatrically shuddered, although she had seemed more thrilled than anything else as Jim recounted the night's events.

It wasn't particularly difficult to gain access to institutions like Arkham when you were affiliated with the Gotham PD; Edward is mostly a homebody, preferring to spend his nights in his apartment, especially now that he has someone to spend those nights with, but the next night, he texts Jonathan to let him know that he'll be home late before bundling up and heading to Arkham. He'll tell Jonathan the truth if he asks for it, but not specifying _why_ he'll be home late is easier. It's not like Edward is cheating on him; this is, after all, business, or at least an extension of business.

He hits a bit of a wall once inside of Arkham, which he'd expected - he's not an officer, simply a forensic scientist, and Jerome isn't just a patient, he's a murderer - but Jim's name carries more weight than Edward had originally thought, and Edward is allowed a short visit with Jerome. He's given a name tag and a brief pat-down and a security guard parked in front of the door.

It's a little bit like _Silence of the Lambs_ with the way that Edward is led to Jerome's room, except no one flings semen at him and, when he arrives at his intended destination, he's not met with the gaze of a mastermind criminal aged by experience but the dour face of a teenager with a shade of hair that looks almost alive under the dim, clinical lights.

"You get ten minutes," the guard tells him. "Try not to piss this one off."

"Of course," Edward agrees, the door shutting behind him. He turns to Jerome and smiles genially.

The first thing that Jerome says after he looks Edward up and down, slowly, is, "You're from the police department, aren't you?" To be honest, Edward can't fathom why Jim was so shaken up by Jerome. He seems like a kid who made a terrible mistake in a fit of rage, not a murderer with a motive.

"Well, yes and no. I work for the Gotham PD, but not as a police officer. I'm Edward Nygma." He remembers the excuse that he gave the employees. "I'm, um, here to ask you a few questions about the quality of care offered by Arkham."

Jerome chuckles softly, the sound bitter. "'Quality of care'? I killed my mother. As far as these people are concerned, the most _caring_ thing that they could do is give me enough pills to kill me in one dose instead of letting me rot away slowly." He cracks his knuckles and pats the spot next to him on his bed, which is made with grey-white sheets and a pillow without a pillowcase. "Sit, Mr., what was it, Nygma?"

"Nygma, yes. I'm fine standing, but thank you."

"It wasn't an offer," Jerome says, too calm.

Edward is smart, but he's not particularly self-preservative. He shouldn't have come here in the first place and he certainly shouldn't remain in the room with Jerome any longer.

He sits on the foot of the bed. Jerome smiles, and it makes Edward feel like he's looking in a fun house mirror, so reminiscent of his own smile but wider, sharper. "I don't bite, Mr. Nygma. You can sit closer. I do get lonely in here and it's nice to have some company."

Edward is paralyzed by - not fear, not exactly, but something. He finds himself unable to move farther from _or_ closer to Jerome.

"Hm. Fine," Jerome remarks placidly as he moves to sit next to Edward, close enough that Edward can feel the heat coming off of his body. "You said that you had some questions for me?"

"Um," Edward says ineloquently. He had prepared a few questions on the way to Arkham, but he can't remember a single one.

"How about I ask you one?" Jerome offers. His hands are bound by shiny silver handcuffs that Edward isn't entirely sure are ethically to be binding an asylum patient with, but he lays one of his hands on top of Edward's clasped ones, laying awkwardly in his lap. "Why would Gotham PD send a forensic scientist to conduct an interview with a murderer who has been deemed 'mentally incompetent' by the state?"

"I never said that I was a forensic scientist," Edward says through a lump in his throat that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"You didn't have to say it," Jerome says kindly, almost sympathetically. "You smell like hydrogen peroxide, but you're not the medical examiner. That's Dr. Thompkins, if my memory serves me correctly." He chuckles again, although less bitterly and more genuinely amused this time. "Who else in that place is going to smell like hydrogen peroxide if not someone on the forensics team?"

"You're awfully observant," Edward says.

"And you're not particularly gifted in the way of lying, are you, Mr. Nygma? Your face says everything that I need to know. What I can't figure out, though, is why you'd come all this way to talk to little ol' me in person. I'm sure that they would have given me phone privileges if they knew who was on the other end of the line. Did Detective Gordon send you? Something tells me that no one, not even him, knows that you're here." He coaxes Edward's hands apart and holds one in his own.

"I..." Edward's voice feels like a tangible thing, stuck in his throat as if with glue. "I wanted to know why you killed your mother."

"I don't doubt that you're curious about my motive, but I don't think that that's the real reason that you're here," Jerome says. "Oh, and I killed my mother because she was an insufferable whore who only cared about herself. I wouldn't lie about that, _sir_."

Edward's heart feels like it's going to beat right out of his chest.

"Your hand is so clammy," Jerome remarks, making a face but not letting go of said hand. "And your ten minutes are almost up. It would be nice to see you again, though. Bring questions next time."

As if on cue, the security guard opens the door. "Time's up."

\--

Edward spends the next day so flustered and out of sorts that he ends up nearly botching key pieces of evidence. "I don't know what's gotten in to you," Jim tells him, "but you need to take the rest of the day off and sort yourself out. We'll find someone to cover for you. Go home and get some rest, if nothing else."

Edward doesn't go home. He goes straight to Arkham again, though this time he comes prepared. He's never felt like he was any good at lying, something that Jerome had confirmed for him last night, but he does the best that he can in front of the Arkham employees, trying again to project an air of confidence even though his head feels like it's swimming and his hands are shaking. Either he does a serviceable job or the staff at Arkham are incompetent and unqualified. It might be both, he thinks archly.

"Back so soon?" Jerome greets him after he's escorted to his room. "How long did you convince them to let you stay in here this time? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? I'm starting to think that you'd like a room here, too."

"I thought about what you said yesterday," Edward begins, "and I have some questions. Some real questions this time."

"Lay 'em on me," Jerome smirks. "But, first, have a seat." His voice drops a pitch. "I saved a spot for ya."

Edward feels very bold sitting right next to Jerome. A lifetime of shyness has left him making the first move more out of desperation than bravado, but Jerome seems to appreciate the gesture, anyway.

"You're a funny one," Jerome says, ignoring his hands this time to touch his face instead. Edward flinches away from the touch out of shock, but Jerome grabs his chin and forces him to look at him straight on, the act not painful but assertive. "You're, what, in your mid to late twenties? And yet you're clearly intimidated by me. I may seem wise beyond my years, Mr. Nygma - " here, he laughs " - but aren't you a little old to be scared shitless by a teenager? You can't even look me in the eyes unless I make you."

"It's Edward," Edward blurts out. "It's...you can call me Edward. And fear is a natural reaction when you're in the proximity of a murderer."

"I wouldn't have killed the bitch if I knew that her death would be hung over my head like this," Jerome sighs. "...Well, maybe I still would have. But I don't believe you, _Eddie_. You wouldn't have gotten a job with the police if being 'in the proximity of a murderer' frightened you." He hums a little, contemplative. "I can sense it, you know. First Dr. Thompkins and now you. You enjoy the thrill, don't you?" He runs his thumb along the edge of Edward's jaw; for a kid born into and raised by a traveling circus, his hands are surprisingly soft and callus-free. "Yeah," he muses, agreeing with himself. "Yeah, you enjoy it. Tell me, Eddie, you have someone waiting for you at home?"

"I...have a partner, yes," Edward says once he manages to find his voice again. He's hot all over, skin prickling in a way that feels like needles pushing upward into his skin from inside of his body. It's unpleasant and electric.

"Boyfriend, then," Jerome says. "Is he young, too?"

Edward stays silent.

"Oh, Eddie." He sighs, exasperated but fond. "I'm going to kiss you now, okay?"

\--

Edward doesn't visit Arkham again for a month. Work is work is _work_ , routine bordering on unpleasant in a way that Edward has never experienced, and home is home is Jonathan, taking things as slowly as he wants.

It's toward the end of that first month since visiting Jerome that Jonathan kisses him. Edward is half-asleep on the couch. He hasn't been sleeping much these days, Jonathan's body next to him a source of comfort but frustration as well. Jonathan is reading another one of his books and then suddenly he isn't, suddenly he's leaning over and kissing Edward. Edward jerks fully awake at the touch of Jonathan's lips to his own.

"Sorry," Jonathan panics, pulling away as if he's been burnt. "Sorry, I just - "

"It's fine," Edward is quick to assure him, "it's fine, Jonathan. It's fine. It's okay," except it's not okay because Jonathan looks thirty seconds away from having a full-blown panic attack, his eyes glassy and far away. "It's fine. _You're_ fine," Edward says, and he grabs at Jonathan's face before he realizes what he's doing, his hands working faster than his brain.

As ill-advised and immediately regrettable as the action was, it seems to have grounded Jonathan. His breathing slows and he lets Edward inelegantly pull him into an embrace.

\--

Edward is made to give up everything in his pockets, including his cell phone, before he enters Jerome's room. Edward understands that every possible precaution needs to be taken in order to ensure both his and Jerome's safety, but Jerome is still disappointed. "We can't fuck without lubrication," he says sadly and sweetly before taking Edward's cock into his mouth.

Edward stares at the ceiling for a little while, listening to Jerome's jaw work around him, trying to accommodate the size of him. Edward's cock is perfectly average, maybe even a bit on the short side, but Jerome tells him that it's been a while since he's sucked someone off and that he's out of practice. "It'll help you pretend that yours is the first cock that I've sucked," he had chuckled softly against his ear.

Orgasms make Edward more introspective than he likes to be, which is why he tries not to have them if he can at all help it. They make him feel like everything is being thrown into sharp relief. That's why he came here again, though, isn't it?

Ah, there's the introspection. He tries to ignore it.

Jerome's mouth slides off of his cock, his lips spit-shiny and red, so red, against pale skin almost glowing under those damned lights. "Eddie, you have five minutes to come and get cleaned up before the guard comes for you. Be a dear and try to hurry it up, will you? My jaw is getting sore."

"Sorry," Edward says. "I'm...distracted."

"Has the guilt set in yet?" Jerome asks, running his fingers up and down Edward's naked thighs absentmindedly. "Or am I not turning you on?" The disappointment on Jerome's face would be more convincing if Edward hadn't been privy to the closest thing to Jerome's "true" self over this past month or two.

"You know very well that you're..." Edward's cheeks flare.

"That I'm turning you on? Your dirty talk is shit, Eddie. We're going to have to work on that. Maybe I can get your young ward to help me."

Edward's cock twitches. Damn his biology.

"There it is!" Jerome cries almost too loudly. "All you had to do was ask, you emotionally-stunted man-child. Don't worry," he adds before going back down on Edward, "there'll be plenty of time for that once you break me out of this shithole."

\--

He's harboring a criminal, this much is true. The unfortunate thing is that he's not sure if he's talking about Jerome or himself.


End file.
